“It is too late,” he said.
“What do you mean, too late?” she demanded, with a sudden fear in her eyes. “What have you done? What right have you to interfere, anyway? Gregory Ballaston is going abroad to-night. That is the best thing that could happen.”
“It is nevertheless too late,” Mr. Johnson declared. “The local police have consulted with Scotland Yard by telephone, and they have decided that the evidence they hold at present against Gregory Ballaston is sufficient for them to stop his going abroad. They have issued two warrants to-night. He will be arrested, I should say, within the next few minutes.”
She seemed suddenly to tower above him; white, passionate, menacing. Her eyes blazed, her fingers seemed to seek a weapon. It was the first vital fury of youth.
“You brute!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Gregory!”
For a moment the earth seemed to darken around her. Mr. Johnson groaned as he led the half-fainting girl to a couch.
“Miss Endacott,” he said, “this is a terrible business, but believe me, justice must be done. Murder is an unforgivable crime. To take another man’s life—have you thought what it means?”
“What about my life?” she moaned. “Don’t you understand? I was content never to see him again. I lied about the Image to save him, but I love him. If this horrible thing happens, I think that I shall kill you. I shall either do that or die myself. I can’t bear it, I tell you! I can’t bear it!”
She leaned forward in her chair and began to sob. Mr. Johnson mopped his forehead feverishly. It was perhaps in his eager desire to escape from the horror of the moment that he took particular note of the long key which was attached to the chain which hung around her neck, and which had temporarily escaped its resting place.
“What key is that?” he asked her sharply.